


Before the Storm

by paintedbutton



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood Magic, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Pre-Game Events, The Conclave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 22:37:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12351984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintedbutton/pseuds/paintedbutton
Summary: When Sibéal Lavellan first wakes up after the Conclave, she can barely remember anything. This is the story of how she came to interfere with Corypheus' plans and gained the anchor on her hand.





	Before the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to write backstory for my current Inquisitor. It got out of hand. I also sort of made myself curious about the weird friendship of Maxwell Trevelyan and Malika Cadash. Too bade they both went boom at the conclave.  
> The self-harm tag is being used in connection magic. Sibéal is a former blood mage and as such both her scars and her using blood magic are described in the story. If that sort of thing distresses you, please heed the warning.

_"I can fix this."_

_The words spilled out of her mouth unbidden. The hunter that had accompanied her, Danyra, looked back with a frown. She hadn't been a full-fledged hunter long, maybe half a year now. In the strange purple light the broken crystals exuded her skin seemed washed out, almost paper thin. The ink on her face stood out in stark contrast. The contraption she inspected was strange, stranger than any they'd seen in these ruins so far. They'd originally assumed it was a library, shelves reaching towards the high, vaulted ceilings stuffed with parchment ready to fall apart at the slightest touch. Laboratory was perhaps more fitting a term. The room they were now in seemed endlessly tall in that ethereal light. In its centre, the contraption stood. Three crystals mounted in equal distance to each other around a circle, magically throwing the room in a latticework of flickering shadow and ethereal light. As if on cue, one of the crystals fizzled and sparked. That single spark seemed to tear at the Veil, making the air ripple with something beyond._

_"I don't think -" Danyra started to protest, but Sibéal interrupted before she could help herself._

_"Look at all this," she said, her voice hushed, "Look at the sparks. It's more of a danger left untouched than healed." Those words might be true. She didn't know, she'd never even read about such a contraption. But whatever it was, whatever it did, it drew on the energies around it, feeding them towards an unseen purpose. From some angles, it seemed there was another crystal held aloft in the middle of the circle, larger and brighter than the rest. She had to see what it was. It was her duty to her people._

_Her companion still seemed unconvinced. "We should tell the Keeper, ask her what she thinks." She made an expansive gesture, back towards the corpses that lay near the high entrance archway, once again lifeless. With the Veil so thin, spirits slipping through had not been surprising. If only they wouldn't become these crazed, half-dead things ... Fixing the contraption might help with that as well._

_With that in mind, she was unwilling to concede. Insistently, she said, "The Keeper sent me with you, didn't she? It's why I'm here, lethallan. Just let me do it."_

_"How then?"_

_For a moment, she watched the fizzling jolts of energy. Only half of the thing was still present in this world, but if she ... The idea came unbidden, burning through her veins in a sudden realization. Creators, she always hated this part the most. She knew she could fix that, it was so easy. All she needed was, "Blood."_

_"You know the Keeper doesn't like you using blood magic." Danyra crossed her arms. Whatever hint of agreement had been in her had suddenly passed. If only she could be convincing enough, maybe it would come back._

_"It's a tool like any other." An old disagreement, woven into the clan at this point. They disapproved, afraid she would hurt herself, lose herself. They were wrong. It wasn't power she desired, so she couldn't lose herself to it. "And it's the only one we have, unless you saw a pile of lyrium lying around somewhere."_

_"You know I haven't."_

_"Exactly. Step back please." She waited until Danyra had reluctantly moved back before freeing the small carving knife from its sheath on her belt. Her right arm, when she rolled the sleeve up, was littered with uneven scars in a testament to her magic use. Blood and pain, suffering. She'd found that this was the place she was sensitive enough to give both without losing her hold on the spell. The scars weren't pretty but she'd always done what she had to. She closed her eyes as she let the blade cut through her skin, murmuring a few words under her breath. They weren't part of the spell, she could hold that silently if she needed to, but a concentration aid she'd used for most of her life now. Taking a deep breath, she drew the magic through herself, directed it at the contraption in front of her, and opened her eyes. Forced apart by the energy, the Veil tore open. Through the tear, the middle crystal could be glimpsed. It seemed to react to her magic, brightening until it was almost unbearable to look at. Blinking against the light, she silently commanded it. **Come through.** Nothing. Blood was running down her finger tips. She drew another breath and commanded again, but still the thing would not be moved._

_"Sibéal ..." She didn't look back at Danyra, couldn't. But she felt why the hunter's voice held warning. A chill crept up her back, ice and death leaking into the chamber. She needed to pull the contraption into reality, she needed to close that tear back up before something terrible found its way through. It wasn't enough._

_With a sudden movement she jerked around, fixing Danyra with her gaze. "Come here," she commanded, "I need your help." Something in her gaze or voice must have warned Danyra. She stepped forward cautiously, never looking away._

_"What are you doing?" she asked gruffly when Sibéal raised the knife once again._

_"It's not enough, I need ... I must close this but I can't draw more power without risking losing control. I need your blood."_

_Danyra looked like she might protest when her eyes strayed past Sibéal to the tear. Whatever she saw within made her eyes widen, her features harden. She gave a curt nod. "Do it then," she agreed. There was something urgent in her voice. "But do it quickly!"_

_"I'm sorry, lethallan." The blade carved a blooming wound down Danyra's outstretched arm in one swift motion. If she'd had time to think, she would have placed the cut differently. Instead she raised her bloody fingers, drawing from both wounds now. The crystal had started pulsating, absorbing the magic she threw at it. Faster and faster, the pulses came. Smoke was pouring at their feet. Somewhere, Danyra choked back a pained sob. Sibéal paid it no mind. With a yell, she yanked at the crystal with all her might. A deep, booming sound echoed through her mind, making her stagger back. The crystal gave a heave, pouring smoke into the chamber until she nearly choked on it. With what almost sounded like a shriek, it broke apart. What had remained of the other crystals in the contraption burst into pieces. The shockwave they created threw her off her feet, knocking the air out of her lungs. When she tried to draw in breath, all she felt was smoke. Blindly, she raised her bloody hand. **Close!** she commanded, drawing all the power she still held within herself and throwing it outward blindly. She couldn't tell if it worked, the suffocating smoke in her lungs took her consciousness a moment later._

Her right hand was tingling when Sibéal woke with a start. It always did after waking from nightmares. Somehow, the burn scars on her fingertips reacted to her emotions without fail. Night held on like a heavy blanket, cocooning her and the tears she felt prickling at the corners of her eyes. That same old dream ... that same old memory, really. Creators, she hated it. Three years and it still wouldn't let go of her. Danyra had been dead when she had come to, body gone cold and lifeless. She had deserved better than that. Her fingernails created sharp pinpricks of pain where she pressed them into her palms. Sibéal concentrated on the reality of that, willed the smoke and memory to recede. When she finally rolled over, curling herself into a ball beneath the heavy quilt, she hoped vainly her mind would be kind enough to grant her a few more moments of sleep.

 

Sleep, naturally, did not come. She finally stumbled from her bed and into the heavy folds of her robe when she heard the birds begin their morning song, signalling the futility of her pretence. She willed the logs in the hearth to burst into flames, settling in front of it with a sigh. If sleep was eluding her, she might as well use the time for more productive pursuits.

 

Fog was still lying heavily upon the ground, rising from the bog water outside and hiding the world from view, when a sharp knock at her door broke the early morning silence. Sibéal unfolded herself from where she had been ruminating on ancient texts, sighing heavily. She wasn't expecting much from whoever disturbed her peace at this hour. A villager, most likely, come to beg for a potion or a poison. They feared to tread so deep into the moor. They feared her, too. But they feared their own petty malcontents more. What she wasn't expecting when the door creaked open was a familiar face decorated with rich purple ink surrounding scowling features. What she wasn't expecting was someone who had once been a friend.

"Jaron." His name slipped from between her lips in surprise. The other elf straightened in response. He’d always been tall for an elf. Standing at full height, he could tower over her. It hadn't quite lost its effect in three years of absence.

"Andaran atish’an, Sibéal. You are not an easy woman to find."

"Bog witches never are. We are one like the other, easy to confuse." She couldn't quite keep a tang of bitterness from suffusing her voice. She had been First once, ready to become Keeper herself. Selling protection charms to shemlen villagers was a far cry from her former life, even if it provided ample opportunity to seek out the remainders of history hidden deep inside these woods.

"Bog witch is not what I've heard you called," Jaron replied with narrowed eyes, "I believe the word used was _blood_." Blood witch, yes. Something to scare your children with. A rather unimaginative name as these things went but you don't tend to choose that for yourself.

"I don't bathe in the blood of their babes, no matter what tales the shemlen spin."

"You wouldn't. May I come in?" He must have seen her eyes narrow, must have seen the brilliant blue of magic break through their usual dark brown, for he held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. "I am not here to harm you, lethallan. I merely wish to talk."

She considered him for a moment. Time hadn't much changed him at all. The cloak he wore was ragged, still the same one she remembered gifting him upon completion of his apprenticeship.  Underneath it he wore no visible armour though she was sure the tunic hid more than just lean muscle. His clear blue eyes shone with caution, yes, but not deception. He'd always been a terrible liar anyway. If he _had_ come to kill her she was sure she would have known by now. With a sigh she stepped aside, letting him pass and latching the door behind him once again. When she turned he was looking around at the general disarray of herbs drying strung up by the hearth, tinctures and poultices mixing with scribbled parchments and small artefacts on every available surface. Something like wistfulness crossed his features at the sight. She gestured for him to take a seat in front of the fire before she eased herself onto the rug next to him. The book she'd been studying was still lying open in front of them.

"What's this?" he asked curiously, pointing to the cramped elvish writing. She closed it sharply.

Still, she replied, "There's a ruin, deep in the woods. A day's travel from here, provided one knows the way. Its library hasn't completely fallen to dust yet."

"You would keep that knowledge to yourself?"

"I've been told my pursuit of knowledge is less than desirable."

"Your methods, yes, not -"

She cut his rising voice off with a glare, his indignation cooling quickly. "Why are you _here_ , Jaron?"

Three years prior she had been made a pariah of her clan, no longer welcome in their midst. She hadn't seen them since that day, none had come to seek her out. That he had now, it had to have some reason beyond simple kinship.

He stared into the flames of her hearth for a moment, shoulders tense, before his entire demeanour changed like all air was suddenly leaving him.

"Have you seen them?" he finally asked. "The mad Templars and their destitute prey? Somehow they seem to think the woods will keep them safe." He waited for her to nod in reply before he went on, "We have been informed that there is to be a conclave held in Ferelden to end all this madness. The Keeper thinks its outcome may affect us as well. We have harboured none of these mages but others may have, and even so the Templars have been suspicious of us all the same. An end to the bloodshed might mean a hunt for remaining insurgents. I am to head to Ferelden and follow the proceedings there, make certain they will not hunt us like their rebels."

"You've come the wrong way then."  In truth, she couldn’t know where the clan was at the moment. But considering how far north they were, it was an educated guess. Her eyes followed the flames licking across his features, alternately throwing them in shadow and stark relief. When he looked at her the corner of his mouth quirked in a way that meant he was at a loss.

"I am no spy, lethallan."

"Neither am I." The only place she could glide through unnoticed was the forest, its magic recognizing hers and folding around her like a cloak. But he had not come seeking a spy, that much she could guess.

"Remember when we snuck into that shemlen city as children? To free the elves from their plight?" She did. They'd barely reached thirteen then, and slipped into the city between bouts of grumbling farmers, hoods pulled low over their still bare faces. Nobody had paid them any mind. Not even the elves they'd come to free. They'd shaken their heads at the strange children calling for rebellion in their midst and went about their business. "I'm still embarrassed those thugs managed to sneak up on us." Ah yes, the shemlen bandits who had thought two elven children alone in the dark alleys would make easy prey. She still remembered the slickness of the blood pouring from the cut in her palm - and then from their blinded eyes. "You saved us both that day."

"So you've come looking for a protector?" She didn't try to hide her scoff.

"I've come looking for a friend."

"Have you now? I seem to recall you turning your back on me when I did the same." She felt him wince, idly noting they'd leaned closer together without conscious thought. With a start, she drew herself upright again. Jaron's blue eyes bored into her but she would not look back.

"I ... there are days where I wish I'd followed you instead," he confided lowly.

Sibéal scoffed. "And days on which you'd spit on my name." His responding laugh was a hollow approximation of what it had been when she'd last heard it.

"Oh no, never that." Jaron's fingers closed around hers, his thumb stroking over the pulse point on her wrist. Sibéal didn't draw away. She didn't move at all. These days, physical contact was not a thing she often had anymore. "I know I've no right to ask anything of you."

"But you're doing it anyway."

"Come with me, please. Help me. I ... have nothing to offer you in return. Perhaps the Keeper -"

"She won't take me back." Not when she still slit her wrists and danced under the moonlight, so to speak. Blood magic didn't have much appeal to her anymore, not after what had happened. But it remained a tool like any other, the only one at her disposal when her innate magic failed to produce the desired results. The Keeper would never see the necessity of it. Their clan was too involved with the human settlements they passed. Simply having her in their midst was a danger to them. Sibéal had come to accept her decision as right. She had never been meant to become a Keeper. Not when what remained of before held more value to her than those under her charge. She'd never been good at caring for others. And what she had done in her arrogance was reason enough to distrust her - she could not fault them for it.

"No, I suppose not," he sighed. His thumb brushed along the old scar on her palm. "Tell me what you want in return then."

 _You_ , she wanted to reply, but held her tongue. She missed companionship, someone to look at the wonders she'd seen with the same awe in their eyes. Her best friend. But she couldn't. Instead she finally slipped her hand out of his grasp and stood.

"The trek to Ferelden is long," she said easily, "I'm sure you'll think of something to offer me." She turned from the relief in his eyes to survey the disarray of her home, considering what she would need. From what she knew Ferelden was cold and full of dogs. Marvellous.

 

 

Haven was not quite what Sibéal had expected. She'd seen human settlements before, obviously, and she had lived close to a backwater village for over two years now. She'd heard stories about the discovery of the prophet's ashes somewhere deep in the Frostback Mountains, so she'd simply assumed this one would be similar in its isolation. Clearly, she'd assumed wrong.

Quite the opposite from the small village in the bog, Haven was bustling with activity. Around the ramshackle houses that had clearly been built in times past, new buildings had sprung up and crammed together, taking whatever space they could. People rushed about this way and that, a testament to the proceedings of the conclave, interspersed with contingents of guards - none of their uniforms fitting those of their fellows - slowly patrolling the streets. Near an inn, a small group of mages distrustfully eyed a templar showing a gaggle of enthused children his sword. Dogs barked, sheep bleated, and over it all the chantry towered on its hill, a constant reminder for piety shining in the afternoon light. Of the fabled temple itself, once resting place to the ashes of Andraste, which had apparently been removed to protect them from the throngs of pilgrims eagerly making their way to the mountains, nothing was evident. It had to be built in the mountain caverns then, a fact which might prove unfortunate for their endeavour here. Someone roughly jostled her, his armour marking him as a templar. He gave her a dark look, calculating enough to make a shiver run down her spine. When he didn't stop, she drew her hood further over her face to hide herself away. He couldn't know she was a mage, not without her using her abilities, but the mage hunters had always chilled her. Just the thought of being left powerless by their abilities … Jaron put his hand on her arm, drawing himself up to his full height next to her. Something protective was in that gesture, something reminiscent of old friendship. They'd spent the past few weeks in prolonged silences and awkward attempts at reconciliation. Neither of them had ever been very good with words.

"Where to now?" he asked, his gaze still on the templar's back. Sibéal tilted her head towards the inn and its open door. Finding the temple entrance would not be an issue but it was undoubtedly guarded and guarded well. Two elves, their heritage boldly visible on their faces, would not be able to enter easily. Besides, it was information they wanted. Nobody had looser lips than drunkards and servants. Jaron nodded and took the lead, weaving his way towards the building. She followed hidden deep within her hood, glancing cautiously towards the templar’s retreating form.

 

The inn was already overly full, as was to be expected. Mages and templars weren't the only ones interested in what would be negotiated here. The inn keeper gave them an apologetic shrug, handing out ale as he did so.

"Sorry, friends, there's no room to be had here. I can offer you a warm meal and that's about it. Other'n that you'll have to pitch tent with all the others." They'd seen the camps coming in. Strewn about before the large stone walls was a strange amalgamation of all manner of tents. Mercenaries, pilgrims, onlookers - they all shared the same space. Fires had been lit between the tents, offering warmth and a place to cook. They would end up there eventually. For the moment, however, the inn was what they needed.

"A warm meal sounds wonderful," Sibéal answered easily, a smile on her face. The inn keeper seemed harried enough that two strange elves were none of his concern.

"Well, try and find a place then. Bonny'll be with you soon as she can." He turned away before she could do so much as nod. Surveying the room, there wasn't much left in terms of seats either. One of the corner tables held two empty stools situated in the middle of a burly nobleman and a disgruntled dwarven woman arguing with each other. Jaron shrugged slightly when she found his gaze, so they made their way through the mass of people and sat. The dwarf didn't stop her tirade to so much as acknowledge them but the human inclined his head in greeting, something like a smile playing across his lips.

"-and now your Grand Enchanter hasn't even bothered showing up!" The woman was saying. The dark red brand on her left cheek marked her as what the dwarves called casteless, if Sibéal remembered correctly. Another outsider, then, but one much more involved in the proceedings if her indignation was anything to go by. The nobleman frowned, dismissing her ire with a wave of his hand.

"Neither has the Lord Seeker, it seems. They might be looking to avoid getting assassinated, you know."

"Sodding humans and your stupid frilly politics. Let them brawl it out and then buy their lyrium to celebrate I say, this negotiation crap is getting us nowhere!" Her companion sighed, rolling his eyes good-naturedly before turning to them.

"Don't listen to her, dwarven politics aren't so easy either, as I hear it. Nice of you to join us, friends. You look like you've had a long road to travel. Let me offer you a drink. Bonny!" Before either of them could reply, flagons of ale were placed in front of their faces. The human gave a satisfied smile and raised his own. "Maxwell Trevelyan, pleasure to meet you. This here is my associate, Malika of house Cadash, formerly of Orzammar. What brings you here? I don't think the Dalish have much stake in this mess but I might be wrong at that."

"They're here for the same reason I'm here, Max," the dwarven woman, Malika, cut in, "To spy on all these human idiots squabbling with each other."

"And such a good spy you make, my dear." The retort was met with a snort and Malika leaned back, looking them over. Clearly, this table had been the wrong choice. Sibéal drew closer to Jaron, meeting the woman's eyes calmly.

"We are only curious to see what comes of this," Jaron replied easily.

"Aren`t we all? Well, not me, but I don't have much choice in the matter. We're all very pious in my family, you see, happy to lend our aid to the Chantry in whatever endeavour it might be."

"Yes, if only we all had the luxury of being completely unaffected by your religion falling apart." Maxwell's only reply to Malika's words was another smile. These two obviously were familiar with each other, friendly even. An unusual kind of friendship to be sure. "But really now, why are you here? Your mages just traipse about the woods, don't they? They're not buying lyrium, that's for sure. So why should you care what the humans decide?"

"We were unaffected until the other mages began _traipsing about the woods_ as well, bringing the templars with them," Sibéal said curtly. That was the Keeper's motivation according to Jaron anyway. She wasn't so sure that was all there was to it, but it was too late to doubt now.

"Ah. I see how that might be a problem,” Maxwell nodded, taking a swig of ale. Malika merely snorted.

“Sure you do, Max. Don’t think you’ve ever even _seen_ a forest before.”

“I’ll have you know that my family plans excellent hunting parties, my dear.” He didn’t sound the least bit put out at the accusation.

Malika rolled her eyes before she returned her shrewd gaze to the elves. “Fine, you care. Which means you _are_ here to spy, yeah?” They looked at each other, staying silent. What were they supposed to reply? Yes, they were after information on the conclave. Yes, perhaps some might call it spying. Others might simply call it interest. Sibéal locked eyes with the dwarven woman again. It seemed her silence still conveyed enough, as the woman grinned and gave her companion’s thigh a none too gentle slap.

“You'll want a way into the temple as well then, won't you? It must be your lucky day," Maxwell promptly offered, rubbing the offending spot. Malika seemed satisfied at that.

Jaron's eyes narrowed. "That is a rather dangerous offer, is it not?" Maxwell shrugged in response. His entire demeanour was the ease of a human lord, self-assured and missing any hint of worry at the consequences of his actions.

"I'm already getting her in," he said, pointing to Malika, "Might as well add two more bodies to the mix."

"Why?" Sibéal asked, full of distrust. He had no motivations for providing passage to two spies, especially ones he didn't know.

"Why not? You'll find your way in one way or another. The danger you know is always preferable to the one you can't anticipate."

"What do you get in return then?"

"Nothing at all, I suppose. Maybe a little amusement, if you're as subtle as this one over there. If the Qunari catch you it's no skin off my back."

"You know nothing about us," Jaron pointed out, "We could be assassins."

"You could be, sure," Maxwell agreed, "and that temple is filled with the most paranoid bunch of delegates known to man. You might even catch a glimpse of your target, but that's about it."

"Salroka, just shut your mouth. You're not helping your own case." Malika turned to them, shaking her head. "He's just a noble's youngest brat, really. He's bored out of his wits and thinks criminals are fun to hang around with. Take him at his word or don't, but he can get you inside, at least for a bit." Maxwell only snorted with derision.

Sibéal and Jaron looked at each other for a moment. He gave a miniscule shake of his head, but she was already turning back to their companions. "We will accept your offer then."

"What? You can't be serious, lethallan!" Sibéal reached for him before she could think better of it. Jaron looked down at the hand she'd grasped between her own.

"Do you trust me?" The words were quiet, as private as she could make them at this small table.

"I do."

"Then trust me." He looked back at her face, catching her eyes for a moment longer, before finally nodding.

"Ma nuvenin," he simply said. He did not seem happy about it. She didn't let go of his hand when she focused her attention back on Maxwell.

"We will accept your offer," she said again.

"Splendid! I was thinking ... tomorrow night, perhaps? Two more days of arguing ought to leave some evidence behind you could use."

"Very well. We shall take our leave, until then. You will find us -"

"Oh, don't worry. I'll find you," Malika interrupted with a grin.

"That she will. Farewell, friends, until we meet again!"

They stood and left without another word. Only when they'd disappeared into the tent city beyond the walls did Sibéal notice she was still gripping Jaron's hand.

 

"Do you ever regret it? Leaving?" Jaron was staring intently at the flames of their little campfire, roasting the rabbit he had snared earlier. They'd set up camp as isolated as possible with so many people milling about. For now, they were alone. She could see figures moving against the backdrop of the many fires in the valley. Sibéal looked at Jaron's back mutely. Did she? She regretted the loneliness, the strangeness of her life. She missed her clan like a constant ache - easy to ignore day to day until it stole her breath for just a moment. Reluctantly, she settled down next to him, watching the flames lick at the rabbit's haunch.

"Sometimes," she admitted, "Everyone has regrets, I think."

"Bel."

"What would you like me to say? That I miss the clan? That I miss sitting by the fire and listening to the hahren spin tales for the children? Hearing Melya scold the halla like they'd listen to her? That I miss _you_?" She wasn't certain how obvious her helpless longing was. Next to her, Jaron made a sound she couldn't quite place, his hands gripping the spit tighter. "Of course I have regrets. Dwelling on it will do me no good." Abruptly, Jaron pulled the rabbit out of the fire and set it aside. He turned to her, gripping her shoulders and finding her gaze.

"You could come back," he said, "that cottage is no place for you. Just ... stop this madness. Come home."

"I was exiled, Jaron. I'm a pariah to them! Nothing you say or feel will make that any less true!"

"You killed someone, Bel, of course the clan turned against you! But if you just made them see -" His grip on her shoulders was almost painful now. Why was there so much desperation in him? Over this? Over her? She didn't, couldn't understand what she was seeing in his eyes. He had always been her closest friend, her only confidant. When he had turned away from her, it had hurt more than the Keeper's grave voice speaking her judgment. She had never considered that her exile must have affected him as well.

"There is nothing to see! I still seek the same knowledge, I still use the same rituals, and they won't take me back!"

Jaron's face crumbled but his voice was still vehement when he said, "Creators, what do you want me to say? I just ..." He leaned forward then, resting his forehead against hers, and closed his eyes. His fingers loosened their vice grip and trailed down her arms until he could tangle them with hers in her lap. Sibéal remained still. This ... they hadn't been this. Absence might have brought him clarity where it only muddled her thoughts. When he kissed her, so soft and hesitant, she didn't respond. Jaron broke the kiss after a moment, resignation clear on his face, and finally let go of her.

"Jaron," she said, half question, half statement. Her voice was rougher than she would have liked it to be.

"It's alright, lethallan. We don't have to - we should eat." Mutely, she nodded.

 

"Jaron," she whispered into the night much later. Sibéal had been staring at the rough canvas of their tent for quite some time, Jaron a still lump next to her. She knew he wasn't sleeping, he'd always been particularly erratic when asleep.

"... Yes?"

"How long have you - have you always - I mean -" She was stumbling over her own words, so she broke off in frustration. The lump sighed and uncurled itself, Jaron turning to face her.

"After you left I spent too long brooding and hurting not to admit it to myself, Bel."

"I see." She did not know what else to say. Somewhere in the distance, a group of mercenaries were singing a drunken shanty. The night was alive with the sounds of the sleeping and the restless in equal measure.

"It won't have to change things, Bel. I ... realize my actions were hasty." Jaron had sat up now, slightly hunched under the low canvas ceiling covering them. Sibéal watched him carefully. He seemed torn between reaching for her and fleeing the conversation altogether.

"Even if it could ... I - you will go back to the clan and I -" will be alone again. She could not finish that thought.

"I could stay." The moment the words had left his mouth, Jaron hunched over further, curling into himself. He obviously hadn't meant to say the words aloud.

"What?"

"I didn't mean to bring it up so suddenly, but I ... I have been considering it," he said quietly. The words were slow, each carefully considered. "I owe you something for coming here with me, and while offering myself is hardly appropriate ... companionship may be a worthy offer?" He looked down at her hopefully, eyes glinting strangely in the dark. Sibéal's mouth opened of its own accord but there were no words she could say. Or perhaps there were too many.

"No," she finally said and watched his face fall. "No, you cannot be serious. You don't even know what you're offering! Leaving the clan, that's ... I ..."

"It would be my choice. You left, didn't you?"

"I was exiled! I made my choices, but leaving would never have been one of them!"

His expression turned stony but she could see the fire in his eyes. He almost hissed his next words. "Fine, I won't mention it again. Let's just finish this and be done with it then." When he lay back down, despite their proximity it was the furthest she had ever felt from him.

 

They barely spoke the next morning and went their separate ways as soon as it was feasible. Sibéal, without knowing exactly how, ended up at the inn once again, soon joined by Maxwell. It was barely noon.

"I suppose asking you whether you have any duties to attend to would be futile," she asked more of the room at large than of him. He laughed in response.

"Ah, duties. I'm sure I'll have plenty of those just as soon as my sister finds me. You know these people all know nothing of what goes on inside that temple, don't you?"

"And why would that be?"

"Well, they're here for one." He waved a hand lazily towards the closest table. The people sitting at it seemed like minor nobles, Orlesian most likely. They were turning their noses up at the food they had been brought, taking turns complaining about it. One of them noticed her looking and sneered. Sibéal held eye contact until he turned away, shoulders hunching. "See? The really important people aren't afraid of some elven wench, no matter how wild she looks. If you'll excuse my language."

She turned her glare on Maxwell. "You know nothing about me or what I could do to you, shem."

"Very true, my dear woman, but neither do they." He looked thoroughly relaxed, despite the threat in her voice. "So, my point still stands."

"Where would you suggest I go then?"

"To the Qunari." When he saw her uncomprehending look, he elaborated, "You must've seen them about by now, they're not all on duty at the same time. From what I understand the Divine hired them because big, scary Qunari might at least cow the mages and templars into civility. They're really something to behold. You might find one or two of them at their camp. Not sure how much you can get out of them, but from what I gather they're not real Qunari, so they might be more talkative than the usual kind."

"I see. Ma serannas, I shall go there then." She moved to stand when he sat up, holding up his hands.

"Well, I mean, you don't have to go there right now. You could stay. Share a drink with a poor fellow."

"From what I gather, you're hardly poor. If you'll excuse me." His clasping of his chest in mock heartbreak in response she acknowledged with little more than an eyeroll as she stepped out of the tavern and into the busy street.

 

Finding the Valos Kas was not particularly hard. Qunari weren't exactly a common sight in Ferelden, so getting pointed in their direction was an easy task. The man she found lazily stirring something over the fire made her think of the mountains around them. He seemed to be mostly made of muscle, easily twice her height and big enough she briefly wondered whether he even fit through doors. The startling green eyes that fixed upon her almost immediately were shrewd and knowing.

"Gawking or curiosity?" he asked amicably. Sibéal frowned, leaning upon her staff. Even with him sitting he barely had to look up to lock eyes with her.

"Sorry?"

"What brings you here? Gawking at the giant or looking for information?" Ah. So she wasn't the first to seek them out. She tried her best to smile and shrugged in response.

"Curiosity then." He motioned for her to sit, so she took a place on the opposite side of the fire, watching him over the flames. He continued stirring, glancing at her now and again. When she didn't say anything, he finally leaned back and looked her over.

"Out with it then, go on."

For a moment, she hesitated. Then, "I'm curious about the proceedings of the conclave, as you might guess."

"Everyone is."

"Are there any developments?"

"Hmmm. They started yelling at each other." The Qunari snorted, "Before, they wouldn't even look at each other. Now it's all blaming each other."

"Could they reach compromise?"

"Maybe in a year or two, who knows."

She frowned at that. A year was an awfully long estimate, one she couldn't wait out. Even more so, if nothing was being agreed upon, sneaking into the temple might be a futile act as well. The Qunari watched her calmly, still stirring his soup.

"You're awfully forthright about all this."

He shrugged. "Nobody paid us to be silent. Besides, I haven't told you much of anything, have I?"

"I suppose you haven't."

"Hey, Adaar," someone called, "Stop making eyes at pretty elf girls and focus on the damn stew!" The Qunari, Adaar it seemed, rolled his eyes in response.

"There's really not much to tell," he said instead of acknowledging to caller, "It's none of my business either way, we get paid whether or not they decide to stop killing each other. Sorry."

Sibéal hid her disappointment as best she could, standing again and smoothing out the folds of her dress. "Thank you for your time anyway, Adaar. Dareth shiral."

"Whatever that means. Good day to you!"

 

"Anything interesting?"

"No. You?"

"No."

They'd hardly spoken a word to each other all evening and it was starting to grate on Sibéal's nerves. She'd never been particularly talkative, even before her years of solitude, but awkward silence was something she hated even more. With a frustrated sigh she turned to Jaron, who was resolutely looking off into the distance. "Jaron, I -"

"Ah, there you are. Come on, it's time." Before she could even start to formulate her thoughts into words, Malika had materialized from the shadows around them. She stood in front of the fire, arms crossed and tapping her foot, until they rose in unison and doused the flames of their small campfire.  Clearly patience was not one of the woman's virtues.

They followed her through the imperfect late-night dark, broken in many places by fires and embers, through the village and towards the temple. When they arrived, Maxwell was already waiting for them, shadowed by the mountains rising above. He was carrying a small torch, one which Malika regarded with annoyance. The flames made his smile strangely crooked and imperfect.

"There you are! Come on, we're working in a very small window here, friends. Once we're inside, I'm no longer responsible for you." His declaration was met with an eyeroll from Malika before she none too gently elbowed him in the hip.

"Let's go then, salroka, before you get cold feet and that tongue freezes up in your mouth," she said, but there was a grin on her lips.  Maxwell nodded, rubbing his hip, and gestured for them to follow his lead.

The walk to the temple itself was quiet, unpopulated at this time of night. The only people they saw were two bored looking Qunari guarding the door. One of them was the man Sibéal had been talking to earlier. Cautiously, she pulled further into her cloak and stepped half behind Jaron, who's only acknowledgment of her actions was a tiny twitch of his brow. Maxwell argued with the guards rather energetically. The haughty tone his voice had taken on grated on her. So far, he'd been nothing but amicable. Now, he was a noble, someone certain of his ability to get anywhere at any time and how dare they stand in his way? Back and forth they went until the Qunari she didn't know threw up his arms and ushered them through. She could almost feel Adaar's eyes burn through the back of her hood when she slipped past him.

The hall that opened up before them was impressive. Dotted around the grand entrance were braziers merrily burning and meant to keep the ever-present ice at bay. Nobody else was here with them. The sight of it tugged at Sibéal, the same pull she felt when stepping into her ancestral ruins. Even with pilgrims and scholars and now politicians trampling all over it, this place still held parts of its ancient air. What could time spent in these halls uncover? Jaron jarred her out of her reverie with a hand at her elbow, making her realize she'd completely ignored whatever conversation had transpired. Maxwell was nowhere to be seen and Malika made her way towards a side passage with quick, sure steps. Sibéal blinked, drawing back into herself. Jaron's hand dropped immediately.

"Negotiations take place through there," he explained quietly, pointing to a door opposite where the dwarf was heading. "Private chambers for the envoy are through there, so I suggest we avoid them. The Divine is apparently also housed there."

Sibéal nodded in agreement and started forward. "Let us hope these humans are as loose with their papers as with their mouths then."

 

Arguments and crossed out proposals - that was what the papers they could find consisted of. So far, negotiations clearly weren't going well. Jaron made a noise of frustration, throwing another parchment back onto the table in the middle of the room. Sibéal had lit just two candles, one for each of them, and the light made his eyes into dark pools, unreadable in their flicker. She sighed in response, rolling up the proposal for a treaty she had been reading. The text was blotched with angry red ink in places, singed in others. Whatever mage had gotten their hands on it had not been happy with the restrictions proposed within.

"We won't find anything," Jaron hissed, "I doubt these shemlen even know what compromise is."

Sibéal was inclined to agree. "Whatever conclusion the Keeper might hope for, it will not happen for a long time yet."

"And so we're stuck." And so they were, though she suspected he meant it in a rather more personal sense than his words implied. She set her candle down next to the treaty and took two quick steps towards him, holding up her hands when he leaned back.

"If we are, lethallin, we should talk sooner rather than later."

"Talk about what? You rejected my offer, I understand." He wouldn't look at her. She raised a hand to his chin, tipping his head down. He could have resisted, both taller and stronger than her. Instead, he met her eyes.

"You've been my brother far longer than I have been your love, Jaron." Beneath her hand, he swallowed. "I could never reject you by my side, if I didn't know losing the clan would hurt you much more than losing me."

Beyond the doors, a commotion started. Without thinking, Sibéal conjured a gust of wind, plunging them into darkness. She could feel Jaron stiffening, his breath becoming slower - a hunter in anticipation of prey or danger. Footsteps sounded in the hall, muffled yelling, clanking of armour. They waited in the darkness with baited breath until she could still herself no longer. She tapped a finger against his neck in warning and crept towards the door. Outside, people were running around like frightened deer; nobody seemed to notice her or even pay each other any mind. She stepped out, drawing herself as tall as she could, and grabbed for the next person running past her. It was a human woman, perhaps a Chantry sister or a servant of the Divine. She was only half dressed in her robes, one sleeve still hanging off her shoulder.

"What happened?" Sibéal asked. She hoped, the air of confidence was enough to trick the woman into thinking she belonged in this place. She needn't have worried. The woman barely spared her a glance, pulling her sleeve up her arm.

"A fire," she explained quickly, "in the Chantry! Maker, those texts are priceless! If they burn -" And off she went. Sibéal turned to Jaron, who had stepped up behind her with a frown. She shrugged in response to his unspoken question. Was this good for them? Or bad?

"We should use this opportunity," Jaron finally sighed, "Perhaps there is more to find somewhere else." Sibéal nodded in agreement, eyeing the now open doors. One corridor led to the living quarters, the way Malika had disappeared earlier. The other, a grand set of double doors, seemed to lead further into the temple. Even with this distraction, their luck wouldn't last long.

Straightening her shoulders, she locked eyes with Jaron. "Go that way, I'll check further into the temple."

"Bel ..."

"You're a hunter, lethallin. There is a lot of people that way, you'll have an easier time hiding without me. Meet me back at camp." For a moment, he looked as though he wanted to protest. Then, he shook his head in resignation. He took her hand between his, kissing her fingertips.

"Be safe," he cautioned and disappeared the direction she had pointed. Sibéal took a moment to gather herself before straightening again and making her way towards the doors in quick, sure steps. She needn't be invisible, not in this mess. She only needed to look like she belonged. She took care to close the door behind her.

Like the hall before it, this room was sparsely lit with braziers dotted about. Their flickering light revealed high, arched ceilings glittering with ice and being held up by massive pillars. In front of her, stairs led up and further into the temple. Sibéal passed it all quickly. The history carved in murals around the pillars' base tempted her but that was for another time. Somewhere, faintly, she could hear voices. She'd have to be careful then, it seemed not everyone had noticed the commotion. What they were doing in the depth of this labyrinth in the middle of the night was another mystery entirely. She froze when a woman's voice rang out, louder than the murmurs before.

"Someone, help me!" She shouldn't. For all she knew it was the spirits of this place, calling for attention. But she couldn't refuse her better nature the same way she couldn't refuse bedraggled young girls in search for a remedy for their monthly pains, the same way she mixed tinctures of no consequence for humans, who had sneered at her in the light of day. She'd never had a bleeding heart but living with the clan meant to help where help was needed. And, if anything, this might prove to be whatever the Keeper had sent them searching for. She quickened her steps, following the corridor further and further until she stood before a high set of doors. From underneath, she could see strange green light glimmering through, pulsating. The air was thick with magic. Taking a deep breath, she drew on her own energies and threw the doors open, magic already pulsing in her veins.

"What's going on here?" The scene before her was as strange as it was distressing. A woman in Chantry robes hung motionless in the air, forcibly held there by a group of mages. They looked nothing like the mages she'd seen here so far, not part of the envoy. The creature before them had no possible description. It looked deformed, grotesque, bigger than it should have been. In its long, clawed hand it held something pulsating with magic more ancient than she'd ever felt even in the ruins she visited so often. Both woman and creature turned towards her at the sound of her voice before the woman made use of the distraction, pushing the strange artefact out of the monster's grasp. It bounced to the floor, rolling towards her, and had Sibéal had enough time to think, she would not have touched it. As it was, instinct ruled her. The moment her hand connected, magic shot through her like a force of nature, forcing all air from her lungs in an instant. She struggled to remain standing, to dispel its power, but all thought but the intensity of pain seemed to leave her. Distantly, she heard the creature bellow in rage. And the world exploded.

 

All that her mind could conjure of it afterwards were flashes, washed out images, until she found herself back in her body, cold stone floor beneath her. The chains holding her wrists clanked heavily when she moved. Magic was still sizzling through her in pulses but weaker now, not like the hot pain she still felt in her mind from before. The world seemed oddly tilted, not put together right. Or perhaps that was her. She only noticed the guards around her when the door banged open, two women entering. One of them strode forward, angrily.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now. The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you." Sibéal looked up at her, uncomprehending. Destroyed? Dead? The words didn't make any sense. The magic pulsing sluggishly flared to life in a brilliant, painful pulse through her palm when the woman grabbed for her arm and held it up.  “Explain this!”

Her tongue moved sluggishly when she tried to speak, slurring her words. "I ... can't." She struggled for clarity but the magic in her arm was flaring and her heart was pounding for a different reason altogether. Dead. All ... dead? Jaron ...

“What do you mean, you can’t?“

"I ..." The woman moved to strike her and magic coiled up on instinct, readying to protect herself. She could hardly cast a spell in her current state but the response was innate. Before she could do anything, however, the other woman stopped her attacker. Her eyes were harsh and bloodshot, likely from too little sleep and whatever had happened that put them all in this room.

“We need her, Cassandra.”

She tried again for words but they were hard to get out. "I ... don't ... understand," she forced through painful breaths.

“Do you remember what happened? How this began?” The woman, who had held back her attacker, asked her. Sibéal shook her head and immediately regretted the action. The world swam out of focus, taking any coherency she might have had with it. What had happened? There were flashes - the pain, a spike of panic ... someone else?

"I ... something was chasing me. I ran?  And then… a woman?”

“A woman?”

"She ... reached for me? But ..." Words failed her. Her head was still pounding painfully, so was her left side. What had been done? The women exchanged glances, a few quiet words, before one exited. The other - Cassandra, wasn't it - pulled her to her feet and unlocked the manacles. She replaced them with rope, but even if Sibéal could have thought about burning them to escape, she didn't have the strength right then. Mutely, she stumbled after the woman. Light blinded her when they first stepped outside. When her eyes adjusted, she stumbled back. The magic in her hand pulsed in response. In front of her, filling the sky, an explosion of magic could be seen casting its dangerous glow. Magic like she'd never seen before now, in all her studies. She could barely hear Cassandra explaining what this was, what they believed this was, as sudden clarity wrecked her. Something had happened, something she had stumbled upon. Jaron was gone. Something ancient had taken root in her. And her world had suddenly changed forever.


End file.
